


Love on the Line

by webcricket



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff and Smut, Humor, Winchester Sister
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-07-08 08:26:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15926624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket
Summary: Castiel is totally in to you, but in turns out the angel isn’t really all that in to phone sex. Backed into a corner when confronted with the matter, he has a surprising way of showing you how he really feels.





	Love on the Line

“Hey, angel,” you coo, beating Castiel to the greeting when he answers your call.

“Hello, Y/N.” His eyebrows gather ever so slightly in a knot of concern at perceiving the breathless quality of your tone. He flashes a quick alerting glance across the breakfast accoutrement and research littered expanse of the enameled-red diner table set between himself and your brothers and catches the not so subtle flare of Dean’s overprotective big brother greens. “Is everything okay? You sound-”

“I’m fine.” You interrupt his worried speculation with a sigh; the softly exhaled burst of air pulses across the receiver at the soothing deepness of his voice washing over your lissome figure reclined against the headboard of the no name motel you woke up in. You hate working separate cases. You hate it even more now that you and the angel have forayed – in spite of much brotherly bemoaning about the development – into the physically pleasure-seeking realm of your coupledom. Come to think of it, that’s probably the precise reason why they sent you on this stupid salt and burn and absconded with _your_ angel in tow.

Visible relief unwinding the fretful furcation of his forehead, Cas tilts his chin away from the phone to mouth the words, _“She’s fine,”_ in order to placate Dean’s interrogative death stare.

Satisfied your reaching out is of a nauseatingly romantic and non-life threatening nature, the former of which the hunter would gleefully expunge the sordid sticky details of from his brain given the opportunity, Dean’s eyes revolve in exasperation as he resumes alternately chewing bacon and bickering with Sam – sometimes utterly abandoning civilized decorum to do both simultaneously – about the next stop in their shifter hunt. Sam is in favor of visiting the coroner’s office. Sam is forever in favor of visiting the coroner’s office. You’d deem it downright creepy if you were here.

The angel’s blue gaze falls from the droll distraction to where his free hand rests upon his lap in order to give you his mostly undivided attention. “You said you’d call if there were any problems. I-”

He’s _still_ worrying. You override the continued fear with an eye roll implicit burble of easy laughter. “Angel, I promise – I’m _fine_. I wanted to hear your voice is all.”

“And?” he asks, allowing some of the tenseness solidifying his shoulders to abate into a slouch – in his experience, there’s always something else; it’s a well-known fact to him all Winchesters have ulterior motives.

Switching the call to speaker, you toss the phone to the mattress beside you – it bounces and lands screen up, catching a glint of morning sunlight streaming through a notch in the shutters on the glossy surface. The fact he knows you so well, suspects _something_ , makes you punch drunk giddy with love. “And …” You sink further into the cushion of bed pillows, and deeper into the cozy depths of your devotion to him in the surround sound of his voice.

You’ve been daydreaming about the angel and his seriously sensual – _or is it sensually serious?_ – gravel-rasp all morning, ever since you woke up in a cocoon of unfamiliar cold sheets rather than the balminess of his embrace. “I just-” Your fingers slither between languidly parted thighs to stroke your wetly aching sex already sinfully slick with the warmth of your arousal just from fantasizing about the seraph. “- _miss_ you.” You bite back a moan at the flickers of heat elicited as you caress the lust engorged folds and lightly graze the gravid bud of pure pleasure.

“I miss you, too.” Castiel’s soppy and solemnly spoken sentiment prompts an amused smirk to quirk Sam’s countenance. Sensing, but not seeing, Sam’s amusement, Cas twists sideways in his seat and makes mental note to lower his volume to avoid further ridicule.

“Hmm,” you hum, approving of the gravity of his response and the ticklish trace of your fingertips now massaging the sensitive swelling flesh of your breasts. “So, what’s new?” The question is purposefully ambiguous – you just need to hear him talk, to keep him talking while you finish.

Castiel answers, calm and literal, as only he can. “Well, Dean considered getting the seasonal house special for breakfast – cinnamon French toast with locally harvested apples and caramel drizzle – instead of his usual, but I suspect he was merely using a feint of indecision to flirt with the waitress.”

Palms trailing down your sides, you imagine the perfectly rough callous of broad hands molding to the curves of your body as he positions himself and plunges into you – a kissed breath of Enochian gratitude for your existence brushing your lips as he sinks and stills. “Mmm,” you whimper.

The angel’s eyes squint at the debauched tenor of the sound, however, seraphim somberness undeterred by the twinge of recognition stirring in his vessel as to the sound’s salacious origin, he goes on. “He also allowed Sam to choose the music during the last hour of the trip. I believe in retrospect he deeply regrets the decision and will not repeat the offer any time soon.”

The harsh clearing of Dean’s throat informs the angel without having to look up that the two men are very much aware of what he’s saying despite their sustained banter.

Dipping a digit into your center, your hips give a little involuntary thrust into the empty space above you, yearning for the weight of the angel on you. You hiss his name through clenched teeth, “ _Castiel!_ ”

The angel’s cheeks instantly flush pink – _that_ particular cry of his name sings unmistakable even to the noblest of his intentions. Bolting upright, swift reflexes right the chair with a darting limb when it threatens to topple under his precipitous rising momentum; the flustered sometime fearsome soldier of the Lord bows apologetically to the inanimate object. Blushing further at the absurdity of the action, he stumblingly excuses himself from Sam and Dean with a dramatically sweeping gesture and retreats to a less crowded nook blessedly out of eye line of your now curiosity-piqued brothers. Cupping his mouth and the phone together, muffling his next words to everyone but you, he presses the device firmly to his ear. “Y/N? Are you?”

Relenting your self-ministrations of bliss for a moment, keen sensuosity burdens the sultry whisper when you speak, “I told you I missed you.”

The rapid rise and fall of his vessel’s chest, shallow breaths coming through as muted static on the line, serve as his only reply.

Excitement subdued by his silence, groping in the sheets, you find the discarded phone and bring it to your ear. “It’s called phone sex, Cas.”

He peers around the corner nervously – Dean is occupied ordering pie and grinning too widely at the waitress. Sam declines dessert with a backhanded remark about breakfast not traditionally being a meal followed by dessert and requests coffee for himself. Cas swings round and flattens his back against the wall. “I know what it is,” he mutters. What he doesn’t understand is _why_.

This reeks of the time you clandestinely gave him his first hand job in the back of the Impala with both your brothers present – Sam asleep, and Dean, you wordlessly asserted with an intrepid twinkling in your eye, too absorbed in the road and classic rock to notice. Sure, they never _said_ anything outright about the illicit angelically-centered groan that awoke Sam with a start and caused Dean to swerve sharply into oncoming traffic, but for a month afterward Dean insisted with incontrovertible sternness you’d _earned_ the right to ride shot gun and that if either you or Cas had a problem with that, the angel could ride in the trunk with the rest of the supernatural stuff they preferred their little sister not to fool around with unsupervised.

“So then, what are you going to do about it, _angel_?” you simper, redirecting his thoughts to the current conundrum; the beguiling bright smile curling your mouth imbues the simple query with a sharp-edged hint of a challenge to prick his pride and a softness of longing you know he can’t refuse.

As you predicted, his instinct is conciliatory – he’d do anything in his power to please you. Sniffing a deep inhalation of the pungent grease and roasted coffee infused atmosphere, he boldly tries to pretend instead it’s the torrid perfume unique to you – the floral notes of shampoo, the salted surface of skin, your sweetly scented arousal – filling his nose. Grace and glory-inhibited aptitude for such reality-eschewing imaginative endeavors failing, Castiel’s head lolls to the wood-panel wall with a resigned thud as his heavily-lashed blues shut. “Y/N, what you’re asking, I’ve never-”

“Cas, _relax_.” Like a lot of the aspects of your relationship, this is going to take a bit of legwork to get rolling, but the seraph is nothing if not an enthusiastic student once he grasps a concept. “I’ll start.” Not that you hadn’t already started well before you called to get him directly involved. You tease your fingers at the apex of your thighs where the want of friction lingers unfulfilled. “What are you wearing?”

He fidgets with the hem of his coat. He thinks it’s a silly question; you know what he’s wearing, he never wears anything else unless he’s in bed with you, where he wears nothing save his bared devotion.

“Cas?”

A bus boy shuffles past carting two overflowing garbage bins. Demeanor even more unnaturally stiff than usual, Cas nods politely in acknowledgement and shifts his weight foot to foot. When the boy exits through the rear door, sunlight briefly illuminating the hall in a wide swath of gold, he gulps and answers, “Um, my, uh, trench coat.”

“Angel,” your voice buzzes admiringly. Settling into the sheets again, eyelids lowering, your hands drift over your body. “I love the way your vessel fills out that coat. The strong arms, the solid trunk, those thick thighs. Almost as extraordinary as the brave, kind, and unfaltering heavenly being in it. _Almost_.”

The crimson blush affecting his features deepens – he appreciates your admiration not just of the vessel he wields, but also your acknowledgement of the essential elements of the being contained within. A shy smile dints the corners of his mouth.

“Ask me what I’m wearing,” you prompt; it’s misdirection, you wear nothing.

“What are you wearing?” he repeats exactly as instructed, a touch of eagerness betraying his self-alleged awkwardness in the lack of a stammer.

Your gaze flits to the castoff crumpled garment used to get you in the mood before you called to get what you really needed – him. “You remember that blue negligée I wore the first time we made love?”

Also a silly question, the image of you backlit in the doorway of his bunker quarters in the scanty lace number, timidly biting at the smile adorning your lips, is seared in his memory as the second loveliest sight he has ever seen – the way it fitted your body, wrapped and draped every beautiful bend and curve, it made him want to do the same. The loveliest sight was revealed following its immediate removal. “Yes, I remember.”

“I thought you would. It’s on the floor at the end of the bed.”

“Oh,” the vowel emerges as a small choked noise. Glancing round at the unideal surroundings for a more surreptitious location to continue the enlightening conversation and finding none, he folds the lapels of his coat across his waist in a half-hearted attempt to preserve his rapidly diminishing corporal humility should anyone else happen upon his hiding spot.

“I’ve been thinking about you all morning. Spent the night dreaming about what you do to me. How good you make me feel inside. Do you know what that does to me, angel? The way my body reacts to the mere thought of you?” To punctuate the point, you moan and arch into the pressure of your own palm pleasingly chafing your sex and the curl of fingers delving to stoke the heat building in your belly and igniting thin tendrils of flame through your trembling limbs.

“Y/N-” he falters at formulating a coherent answer. He has a fairly good _non-verbal_ idea of what he does to you; so does his carnally mutinying vessel, and listening to you come undone over a shoddy cell connection while he uselessly stands here – a skyscraper-sized celestial erection of caged sexual energy – _isn’t_ it.

Tongue wetting dry lips at the thought of your taste and the realization then and there his craving for you is analogous to the pang of emptiness he felt during his stint as a mortal for bodily nourishment – the very sustenance to stay alive – his Adams apple quivers and bobs beneath the stubble shadowing his neck.

“I’m close,” you pant, lustfully peppering the statement with accentuating whimpers as you rock your hips rhythmically into your hand.

Too far away for his preference, he suppresses a throaty growl vibrating in his throat.

That growl is the reason you called. “Oh, angel … you feel … so … _good_.”

He can almost – _almost_ – feel the velvet flutter of your walls convulsing around him and sense the white hot cascading eruption of nerve endings as he supports your limp frame through the shuddering aftershocks of orgasm. It’s too much and not enough. The narrow hall becomes airless, stifling; he loosens his tie and reflexively flaps the long disused trans-dimensionally sequestered span of his wings in a forceful discharge of pent up frustration.

A peculiar high-pitched whining interference blares from the speaker coercing you in the final fading throes of passion to squash a pillow over your head for protection.

The racket ceases just as suddenly as it began.

Grappling with lax limbs to grab the phone you’re sure isn’t supposed to be smoking like that, you shout at it over the ringing in your ears, “Cas, what happened? Are you there?”

“I’m here.” In the blink of an eye, or rather, flurry of a feather, he’s on you; hair wildly tousled, a bit singed around the edges of his coat, face buried in the crook of your neck, his lips profess sweet Enochian nothings along the line of your jaw and seal over yours to silence your shocked and delighted laughter with a kiss.


End file.
